affixed in those formidable pages of fine print in his Badeker; hisattention had been strained and his eyes dazzled, and he had sat downwith an aesthetic headache. He had looked, moreover, not only at all thepictures, but at all the copies that were going forward around them, inthe hands of those innumerable young women in irreproachable toilets whodevote themselves, in France, to the propagation of masterpieces, and ifthe truth must be told, he had often admired the copy much more than theoriginal. His physiognomy would have sufficiently indicated that he wasa shrewd and capable fellow, and in truth he had often sat up all nightover a bristling bundle of accounts, and heard the cock crow without ayawn. But Raphael and Titian and Rubens were a new kind of arithmetic,and they inspired our friend, for the first time in his life, with avague self-mistrust.

An observer with anything of an eye for national types would have hadno difficulty in determining the local origin of this undevelopedconnoisseur, and indeed such an observer might have felt a certainhumorous relish of the almost ideal completeness with which he filledout the national mould. The gentleman on the divan was a powerfulspecimen of an American. But he was not only a fine American; he wasin the first place, physically, a fine man. He appeared to possess thatkind of health and strength which, when found in perfection, are themost impressive--the physical capital which the owner does nothing to"keep up." If he was a muscular Christian, it was quite without knowingit. If it was necessary to walk to a remote spot, he walked, but he hadnever known himself to "exercise." He had no theory with regard tocold bathing or the use of Indian clubs; he was neither an oarsman, arifleman, nor a fencer--he had never had time for these amusements--andhe was quite unaware that the saddle is recommended for certain formsof indigestion. He was by inclination a temperate man; but he had supped